The Darker Side of Hell
by voicelessinthevoid
Summary: Evey Hammond is dealing with the aftermath of the Fifth of November - when the world turned under their feet and change was possible. But the people have become feral from their captivity and Evey's new and better world becomes only a fairy tale dream.
1. Transformation

_Book 1: Valued Vestige_

Brown eyes snapped open and dread instantly threatened to choke her as she quickly realized where she was, where she had returned to. Dingy concrete walls surrounded Evey, the smell of sweat and pungent air was overwhelming and a chilling cold settled into the marrow of her bones. Far off cries rented the air. Evey slowly picked herself up from the cold cell floor. 'It's ok,' she thought sporadically, naively. 'He's going to rescue me as before. V's going to come for me like out of a story - before they hurt me.'

A piercing shriek froze the blood in her veins as silent tears slid down her grimy cheeks. She waited, shaking and trembling. The quiet sounds of the Chancellor's speech drifted in to fill the sudden, silent void. Evey forced herself to crawl into the right far-off corner, clutching her knees to her with talon-like fingers and buried her sheared head in her curled up limbs. Evey tried to stop the involuntary shaking as her muscles twitched violently while a sob threatened to push itself out of her throat. She swallowed it down - a vain attempt to cease trembling and the knowledge that, all too soon, she too would be ripped from this dismal cell.

The door was wrenched open with a harsh slam of metal, the booming sound turning her insides into liquid. The fear was so great that she began choking on her own breath. She mentally searched for an escape, though knowing that there was none. Hands seized her, rough and hard, and smelling of leather. Too fatigued to put up any kind of true resistance anymore, she grew limp in the wonderfully cruel hands as they yanked her from her quarters. Fear drained any strength she might have had left. With her legs dragging behind her down the long hall, the shadows moved and she begged the darkness to swallow her, to force itself into her body and crush her lungs, allowing sweet relief from this hell. Death would bring her closer to him – her only love, but she would be denied it; the blackness only a bystander - curious to her suffering.

Evey was brought into that familiar room of her water torturing. Her skin crawled at such recollection. Without warning, the orange garb was ripped from her body, turning into a black cloak the moment it hit the floor and her arms instinctively covered her chest. Her legs refused to hold her and Evey crumbled to her knees in front of her captor, words lost on her lips as she cried. It wasn't for mercy. The word no longer existed. It was an involuntary sound that was the prelude to an unending nightmare. Her defeated gaze soon traveled up the length of her captor and stared into the face she knew so well, into the blackness that was his eyes. The frozen white grin appeared to leer in mockery. "I didn't put you in a prison, Evey. I merely showed you the bars. You've been in a prison all your life."

A malicious cold swept through the room. She shivered uncontrollably again as the unfeeling prison melted away to the warmth of the Shadow Gallery. He continued to stand before her, unmoved by the sudden change in scenery. "You must know whose face lies behind this mask but you must never know my face."

She stood on shaky legs, staring in confusion into the black pitch of his eyes. The grin infuriated her, as if he secretly took pleasure in her pain - him and his stupid tricks and teachings. Finding a burst of strength, she leapt towards the mask, having all intentions of ripping it off. This wasn't him - her V. It was some imposter. V wouldn't do this to her, not again. Her fingers wrapped around the edges and tore the solid veneer away. There was nothing - nothing but air as the clothes folded upon each other in a bundle upon the floor. Frustrated, she threw the mask on the hard stone with a cry where it shattered in several fragments.

For a wild thought, she wanted to be imprisoned again, anything to rid her of this painful solitude, and she could live in the illusion that he was there - torturing her, yes, but he would physically be there. There was hardly any difference between then and now. How she hurt. Physical pain was nothing like this … She fell on her knees, hunched over, and gripped the cloak around her chilled, naked body, eviscerated by her personal hell, blinded by tears. After a long while, she calmed significantly and slowly focused her attention on the heap of garments still lying there, patiently waiting.

She reached out, fingers gripping over the familiar leather gloves atop the pile. Bringing them close, Evey inhaled deeply. She got lost in the scent and felt as if she hadn't learned how to breathe until that moment. She loved him so much, missed him - was that so selfish? She continued to breathe in the sweet smell, breath it into her soul until she could barely stand it, her tears wetting the material. Without thinking, as if it were someone else doing it for her, she slid his gloves over her hands. The interior was warm, familiar, comforting. It felt like his hands were enfolded over hers. At that realization, she burst into tears as memories and the truth returned to harrow her chest cavity out again in racking sobs. She had to get control of herself! It was more someone else's wish than her own. Evey scrubbed her face with her newly leathered palms, gradually piecing herself back together before she slowly crawled on her hands and knees towards the garments. Numbly, she slipped the grey shirt over her bare torso. She slowly got to her shaking legs and put on the black trousers and lastly, tied the cloak around her shoulders. Evey turned, an invisible force at her back pushing her in the desired direction – pushing her to her destiny.

The dressing room desk came into view, her reflection slowly filling the mirror as she walked mechanically into the room. She didn't recognize herself anymore. Somber eyes scanned over the desk - clean, neat, and orderly, just as he was. The lights surrounding the mirror brought needless detail to her gaunt, haggard and pale features. She looked sick, starved … dead. Evey's gaze continued to pass over the desk - over his black wig that sat on a mannequin head, over the hat that rested upon the flat, mahogany wood surface, the wide brim hovering precariously beyond the edge, and lastly rested her gaze on a Guy Fawkes mask that hung from a nearby stand. Lucidly, she drew near and took the mask down, staring into its eternal grin for a long while, stroking a thumb over the smooth porcelain cheek. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself turning the mask over, staring into its hollow recess. Again, she hesitated.

What immense threshold she stood at, whatever would come, there was no going back. For the first time since her torture, the scared little girl threatened to take over her mind. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could see what would happen and the reverberating outcome that would occur because of it. It felt so wrong …

A warmth wrapped around her, causing her breath to catch in her throat. There was no mistaking it now. She could feel him. V was there, guiding her in this last final test.

Slowly, the mask was brought over her face and buckled behind her head. It felt frightfully claustrophobic at first - an unfeeling cage enclosed around her face. The fear in her heart became replaced with a suffocating desire. His spirit surrounded her and she had no qualms about drowning in it - to meet with him in the world within worlds.

_There's no time for fear or doubt. There is much still left to do.  
_  
The wig was placed over her head, the hat following soon after, and she finally looked at herself in the mirror. It wasn't Evey Hammond, it was V that stared back from the reflection's surface. What stopped her from breaking through the mirror to get to him on the other side, she'll never know.

The more she stared, the more she felt herself dying, every human flaw burning, being purged in the wake of something else - something that wasn't her but at the same time was - something familiar in the unfamiliar, perfection in the imperfection. This was the epitome of V, the symbol, the idea, the very essence of what he was and it, now drove itself - impaled itself into her being. And oh, how she let it.


	2. Sour Anniversary

A heart beat fast as the sub-consciousness released her from its clutches and thrust Evey into the waking world. She bolted upright in bed, hastily rubbing her eyes before she held her face in her hands, breathing heavily. Another one, but this one felt more real, more different than the ghosts of before.

Her gut always felt as if it were being gored out with a cruel, blunt meat hook. A blanket of depression wrapped tightly around her, an insufferable, unending madness that had no end. Sometimes, she felt as if she were going insane, but she was always aware of reason and logic. There was nothing wrong with her mind after all; it was the spirit that was irreparably damaged; not once, but twice - a thousand times over. Fingers would curl into fists as the anger grew, threatening to dominate over every other emotion. It would end and she would again burst into tears in sheer agony. And the cycle would begin anew.

Every day she questioned why. Evey could barely understand the situation let alone the final denominator that would, inevitably, cancel his variable out. V and his damned equations, she thought bitterly. She tried to understand but it was as if she were blind and trying to comprehend abstract untouchable elements of shadows, smoke, and fog. Every time she got close to something, it would vanish before she could even hope to catch a glimpse of the answer.

She lost her mother, her father, her brother, her best friend, and now ... She couldn't bring herself to voice it, to give that ugly horrible truth life with the mere thought of it. V was a nurturer in a loving, passionate, but respectful way, treating her as if she were one of his beloved roses. Why wouldn't she be? He did seem to have handpicked her - appearing out of nowhere to save her from the bogeymen of the world, showed her the country with which she would inherit, and instructed her on how to keep it sustained and from falling into the corrupted abyss of yesteryear.

'It's stupid and pointless to rely on anyone but yourself,' she thought scathingly. 'Look what happens! I'm going to let you down. You're going to ultimately fail because _I_ couldn't do my part. How could you put so much faith into me, V? How could you have been so foolish to trust that I could do the impossible? You were good at that, not me.' The pain was unbearable and she wept openly into her hands, the tears hot and wet as they ran down her face, her nasal passages getting stopped up and her head soon throbbing with congestion. She didn't care. She wept like a child - crying for the first time in years, it felt. She sobbed for V, for Gordon, her brother, her parents, and for everyone else that had been lost unjustly and prematurely at the hands of outrageous misfortune. 'Why couldn't it have been me,' she cried in her mind before her broken voice sounded to the indifferent air:

"Why couldn't it have been me?"

The chill morning air had no answer for her when she had finally ventured out onto the patio. Neither did the larks as they began their song with an andante of a flourish in the wake of the garishly bright sun. It felt a lifetime ago since she had heard his deep and velvet tone recite that old childhood rhyme as he threw his arms out, a tight but delicate hand gripping a baton ere the explosion of Madam Justice and the undoing of everything that she had been; the beginning of so many ends. Her fingers wrapped around the porcelain tea cup as she calmly brought it to her chapped lips in hopes to soothe her aching ailments. The warmth was a comfort to her insides and a kind reprieve from the agony of a few moments ago.

With her nerves comforted, her mind began to tug and drag her back to the reason she was so shaken. The dream was so real, so lucid. Her heart remembered the dread it felt to be back in that cell, and the sorrow of all the memories it brought with it. Her skin remembered the ceaseless pounding of the water, the very sight and faintest hint of the room conjured that real memory up almost instantly. Her soul remembered the sick anguish she felt when she found herself alone again – always alone. She shut her eyes tight, fighting against the phantom figment of her double persona. She had been so carelessly reckless and utterly disrespectful. Her fingers twitched around the tea cup, they, too, remembering an aspect of the dream that felt all too real – the coolness of the mask around her fingers as she threatened to rip it off the way he had ripped the prison garb off her body. The sob threatened to push out of her throat as the very thought choked her and she silently prayed for V's forgiveness, as if she had really tried to. Only once did the thought enter her mind, but he had made it very clear, then, that he was no longer a man. Even as he lay within the train, cold and still, she never thought of taking the mask off. She loved and respected him too much. To know would take something away and something about him would be diminished forever - the idea that he personified would go away forever … The tears came now, sliding down her cheeks in hot, wet trails. Not that it mattered in the end. The people forgot anyway.

What madness was her sub-conscious trying to convey? The dream clung to her like a stain – the deed of her pulling the mask away imprinted into her mind, but she also remembered that nothing had been there. No face scarred beyond any kind of description - just air and the clothes that had fallen at her feet like some twisted ceremony. Her heart beat fast to remember beyond that – how it felt to put on every piece of clothing that made up his sum. Her soul quivered beneath her skin. She had felt him there as surely as she remembered the times he had physically stood near her in the inviting warmth of the Gallery. Setting the cup down, she slowly reached her hands up to press the tips of her fingers to the flesh of her cheeks, her image in the reflection's surface coming back to her. And she only felt alive and looked alive when she stripped away her body of flesh and blood and became the very essence that he always was – symbol and idea.

She blinked and shook her head and gladly took another sip of tea, letting it warm her insides once more and jolting her mind back to the reality of her dilapidated present. She was still a woman, she was still human. She could never let that go for something so grand that overwhelmed her at the very thought of it – the very thing that asked too much and went against her very principles.

The phone rang, disrupting her out of her thoughts. She closed her eyes with a despondent sigh, wiping at her face, before she rose from the seat and stepped back inside. The phone continued its vociferous ringing on the bedside table. Setting her cup down next to it, she picked up the receiver with her other hand. 'Could it be anymore early for these things,' she thought bitterly as she finally pressed the button and responded with a monotone voice.

"Hello, Mr. Finch."

"Hello," came the somber response on the other end. He got right to his point. "Evey …" He said her name as if he were pleading with her, and in all reality, he was. "The country demands something. Anything. Ever since the Fifth -"

"It's their choice, not mine," she cut in. "They have to learn to save themselves."

"Evey. Isolation is not going to fix the problem." She knew he was talking about her. After a pause, she finalized their conversation.

"Goodbye, Mr. Finch."

"Evey …"

Before he could say another word, she pressed the button again and set the phone into its cradle.

In the beginning, she had had hope. She barely had space to contain it as she drowned in its light in lieu of the sorrow that lingered beyond the darkened threshold that was ever so ready to grab her unawares if she wasn't vigilant. She had grown her hair out to its previous luxurious length as a symbol that V's new and better world was more than just a vision or a dream but a soon-to-be reality, that things could - and *would* change for the better. Gathering the people together, making speeches, helping rebuild - slowly but surely, the country began to rise off its knees. She didn't work alone. Finch was ever at her side, ready to help and offer sage advice - a freedom fighter with a face working side by side with a known figure of the nation's government.

Having tracked the masked terrorist down beneath the city's streets, Finch had found V's corpse upon a steel funeral barge and had confronted, instead, with the woman that was famous for helping him. An uncertain gun had been pulled on her but her words had spoken to his conscience.

Evey had not been afraid at all if she had gotten shot that night. So long as the train made its way down the dry canals towards its destination, she could die happy. The smallest part of her, then, certainly wanted to while a large part of her already had. But she had been strong for V. Never would his death be in vain. But reality had far more different plans than the whims of her fantasies.

It had been a short lived victory, as most always were. It had been a swell, only for it to come crashing down the next moment, leaving everything in disarray in its aftermath. What little strength the country had had was now gone and it lay face down in the muddy,

dirty ditch of its rejected ideology. Riots were everywhere, gangs crept out from darkened corners, crime sky rocketed and chaos settled itself back down over everyone and everything. Supplies were short and in high demand; money and jobs were scarce. It seemed everyone had forgotten their masked savior and the woman that was Evey Hammond to help guide them from the path of Perdition - she had now been reduced to a nobody. Everything seemed to have come back full circle. Only this time, there was no mysterious man in a mask to appear out of the darkness reciting Shakespearian quotes and save her, like out of a story again, anymore. He was gone. So she was too for all the country cared.

It was proper for a new Chancellor to be put into office, a new Prime Minister, but the people were wary, so afraid that the shackles would be put back over their still sore wrists and ankles, so afraid of losing their freedom again. But what was freedom without order? It was chaotic madness that they chose to wallow in like pigs in a sty. Anarchy was nothing without its other half and V's half lingered in its iron grip. He was the destroyer and she the creator. But she couldn't hope to build from such decaying rubble that was quickly forming before her eyes like a cancer. When the first shots rang out, when the first mournful cries sounded in the night, when the first body hit the ground, Evey knew that her plans of a new and better world would never come to pass in the way that she had wished.

Evey was aggrieved by the present during the day and tormented by the past at night as she slowly melted into the backdrop of obscurity. When she lost her faith, her hope, everything else swiftly unraveled and she became what she had feared most - a statistic.

The anniversary of the Fifth had rose and fell on a sour note.

The curly locks of her head had fallen all over the floor and in the bathroom sink in her efforts to return to a time and place that did not kindly welcome her back. She had kept her head sheared ever since. Finch, as well as Dominic and several others that were on their side had fervently tried to reason with her. In a way, Finch reminded her, a little, of V. The two were both stubborn as hell. Every day, Finch called her flat, hoping that she would somehow have a change of heart but her answer was always the same - defiant to the end.

The memories flooded her mind, one right after the other in flashes of a white mask and a black cloak as Evey stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She let it come; she let her mind lead her through the trials and tribulations of the past two years of her life that eventually dumped her in the small loo she was now standing in. Running a hand over her sheared head, she looked as she did in the dream – starved and dying, a gaunt expression with red circles under her eyes where she had been sobbing. How was it that a body could keep itself fused together when she was so broken inside? A sigh escaped her dried, chapped lips as she turned away from the shadow in the mirror and closed the door behind her.


	3. A Child's Revolution

Ch 3. A Child's Revolution

"Remember, remember the Fifth of November!"

The famous rhyme drifted on the air by children's voices. Cold and dark, the night was strangely quiet, which, these days, were rare. The stillness would always be disturbed in some horrifying way, either by the busting in of a window, frightening shouts, or gun shots ending in severe bloodshed. Though government surveillance was usurped, evil remained the same; merely under a different guise. It was a luck of the dice or foolish bravery that lured a person out after dark.

The only incessant sound came from the crackle of a fire that burned in a trash bin at the side of a lonely street corner with three figures huddled around it. A car passed by every now and then, headlights spilling upon black clothing and wide brimmed hats. The fire continued to burn, providing necessary warmth and light; the flames basked their pale, white faces in a warm glow. The only words that were uttered had been that first line of the poem made famous by the masked man that came before them. Whether it was because they didn't know the rest of the rhyme or merely said it to embolden their hearts in such a dangerous time, it couldn't be known. But that masked figure had enkindled a part of their young hearts that not even Anarchy's wrath could destroy. In lieu of picket signs, their image was the stranger's own – a stark white mask, a wide brimmed black hat, black clothes, black gloves, black boots, and a sweeping black cloak. He was the symbol that gave them freedom and would be the symbol that would lead them home and turn chaos to order - or so they wanted to believe. Even amidst decline and riots, and shortages of food, money, and jobs, the three children, brought together by a terrible turn of events, remained united for a single, admirable cause. They rendezvoused almost nightly at the same street corner. Some days, it would be longer, other days, it would be shorter, but always they put their safety on the line to peacefully protest against the injustices of the only world they knew.

Black eyes looked up from the fire, the smile grinning out into the darkness beyond the ember's light. The masked figure stiffened and straightened at the sound of footsteps drawing near. Silently, the other two were alerted of this new occurrence and inched nearer to the taller and oldest one. All looked on, waiting, as the silhouette of a woman came into view. Shocked brown eyes stared back into three pairs of black slits. Her lips parted in surprise. The masked trio had never seen someone like this before, but ever did they remain silent. She would pass them by soon enough and a few more moments of standing round the fire would be enough of their protest for tonight.

It took everything to stop the tears that wanted to well up in her eyes at the terribly unexpected sight. Evey had been on her way to seek out food stamps or a grocery card, but it was a fruitless endeavor – much like chasing the shadows in her mind. She wandered aimlessly, until a bright light caught her attention and here she stood before three figures dressed as V. A couple blocks away, the sounds of a heated argument began to drift to them on the air. Noting that and staring at these strangers, she asked, "Don't you know it's dangerous to be out here?" The oldest one, coming up to Evey's chin, lifted his head up slightly, the wide brimmed hat raised in kind as he replied, "We do. But unlike everyone else, we haven't forgotten. And we never will. It's a chance we're willing to take. If even just one person remembers what happened that day, it will be worth it."

"At the expense of your life?" Evey couldn't believe what she was hearing as the older boy nodded his head in affirmation. Why were so many willing to throw their lives away for nothing? Didn't they understand that they stood on a foundation of corpses and that their death merely added to the blood and violence? It wouldn't change anything; V's own sacrifice was proof enough.

A muffled, feminine voice sounded from the mask on the boy's left. "Even if nothing else, it gives us hope. It doesn't hurt to try."

Evey's gaze lowered at once to the shadowed concrete, feeling her chest clench in pain as she suddenly voiced her darkest confession. "I did try … and I failed."

"Then you have to find a different way – one that will work. But you can't stop trying."

Evey's head snapped up to glare at the grinning, masked face that was too big for the girl wearing it. A venomous but righteous retort was on her lips when the sound of a window crashing in startled her out of the moment. Heart fluttering in her chest, she watched as a crazed woman beat the windshield of a car in; angry shouts and yells drowned anything else out. The man she argued with threatened to take the bat and once he did, Evey's gaze fell upon the face she knew so well.

"I think you should go home before things get worse."

"But miss," came the voice of the figure on the eldest's right, "even if we do go home, it won't make it go away. We'll just be burying our heads in the sand, and my friends and I, we're tired of hiding. We want to make a difference."

"By dressing up for Halloween every night? Go home to your parents!" Evey began walking away, putting the costumed individuals and the fire to her back. She'd round the corner and make her way to her flat and away from the shouting couple a block or so away and from the nightly horrors for another few hours. The oldest spoke again, his words more than cutting into her and causing her to stop in place.

"Our parents are dead."

"_Your father is dead." Evey stood in the middle of the street in broad daylight and watched as the man known as Codename: V collapse to the ground in a heap of clothing, a tape recorder clattering to the concrete. Another trick - another stupid piece of the puzzle to solve on her own and left to fend for herself - left to die for all he seemed to care. _

The image flashed before her brown eyes and it was night again, just as alone, just as confused about her current situation. She swallowed hard and slowly turned back towards the smiling faces.

"The day when everything changed …", explained the older boy, "…when everyone was outside waiting like he asked ... when the building exploded …"

Evey's face constricted in pain and empathy, remembering how much she feared seeing, on the telly, her own parents killed in their revolutionary struggles. She wanted to clench her eyes shut, but she feared the vision would only intensify. She remembered that day well; how could she forget? How could she forget what it felt like to watch V die? To listen to his music and experience every single moment they had had playing over and over in her mind until his name, scrolled upon the sky, dissipated with the chilled November air; the smell of smoke and blood stained in her memory? No one would ever forget that night. In the beginning, she had had no idea what V would bring to this country with all of his violence and catastrophe wrought from his black gloved hands – but she knew now. He had created an unstoppable vacuum and left her in this world to fix it, to shape it, to gain control over it. She had tried … Oh, how she tried. It was as if the country's bare foot had stepped onto the government's vicious serpentine body and it had sunk its fangs deep into the nation's ankle. Was there an antidote strong enough to stop the poison coursing through the country's veins?

"_Get back! Get back, I said!" _

_All it took was a single shot from an uncertain hand and everything was thrown into a panic. The people were emboldened now, more than half still wearing the grinning mask, while others, their teeth gnashing and a wild, unfettered look in their eyes, thought to take matters into their own hands. Everyone had just witnessed the impossible – the destruction of Parliament exploding into smoke and rubble before their eyes. They would not be put back under lock and key again. A terrible black wave fell upon the rocks of dark, uniformed officials. Shouts and screams rent the air, rising higher above the tumult of gun shots - so much screaming, so much bloodshed._

_A loud crack cut through the noise, followed by a piercing feminine shriek. A man lay dead upon the ground, blood spilling from the open wound to his temple. The chaos was so great, no one could stop to see or help. A gun was cocked and a gruff command was given for the woman to shut the hell up. And when she didn't, she joined her husband on the ground while a child, wearing a Guy Fawkes mask looked on, witnessing the death of his parents through black screened eyes, a numbed expression beneath a wide grinning smile. The same man that had killed them was suddenly choked from behind by a cloaked citizen while another figure pummeled and beat the officer to death on the ground. More enforcements came, vans pulling up, empty and ready to be loaded with anyone and everyone that resisted. Tear gas was poured into the crowd. A lot of people scrambled and scattered to get away. Others were succumbed, apprehended, and thrown into the awaiting vans or, if the officers didn't feel like struggling with them, were shot point blank in the head. _

Evey opened her eyes and she couldn't help but tremble away the visions as she stared at the children in front of her who had more courage than a majority of adults.

"Another way," she asked tentatively. The three masked faces nodded. The noise from afar died down and the two strangers down the street disappeared in separate directions as a car rumbled by. That eased her nerves a bit and she stepped forward into the comforting glow of the fire.

"He needs to come back," said the older boy. "That's what we're waiting for."

She swallowed her growing sadness down. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

The silence settled around them and only the fire crackled and burned but its strength was slowly dying. She wondered what they were thinking but her main concern was getting them to leave this street corner and go home.

"Please," she said softly, "go home now."

They remained silent and as still as statues and she wondered if they would move at all. The oldest finally nodded and motioned for his two friends to follow. She watched them cross the street until his voice reached her ears on the air as a black eye regarded her over a cloaked shoulder.

"It's not impossible! He's all of us!"

Those familiar words seemed to resonate in her entire body and root itself in her mind. And yes, she did fight against it, because she knew the horrible and malignant truth of it all. These were only children with childish hopes – the way she had had in the beginning when she had thought to turn this country around without the aid of violence and killing. But she was grown up now and knew of grown up despair and sorrow. She watched them leave until their dark forms disappeared around a corner and she shut her eyes, feeling the sting of tears slide down her cheeks. She roughly turned away and began making her way to her flat.

The darkness comforted her in her sorrow as she walked, arms crossed loosely over her chest. Evey breathed in the chilled air and looked up at the sky. Stars blinked down from above, a reflexive and unremorseful response. Her mind tried to avert her attention back to her childhood but she shook her head. To think about her childhood would also have her thinking of V and the time when she *had* been a child in the beginning of that year that she had been forced to stay in the Gallery against her will. All she wanted was some aspirin and a warm bed and a dreamless sleep. As she passed, the wind blew from the mouth of an alley, chilling her and causing her arms to wrap tighter around herself. Instinctively, Evey turned her head to stare, in near defiance, into the murky darkness, as if she were staring down a long brick corridor of memories – the blind trying to see. Within its secret depths, she felt she could almost discern a kind of shape within – the kind that made her heart flutter in familiar recognition. She humoured the idea, as absurd as it was, and fed off of the romantic possibilities that he could somehow be alive, watching over the country, watching over her; her suffering. But her muscles knew of the great dead weight that she had had to pull and drag up onto the train, the silence that passed between living body and corpse as she reverently placed each lily on and around his person, felt her heart cave in at the same time that her soul alighted with new hope in the light of the explosion as the ground shook, causing her insides to reverberate along with it. Her mind contradicted the whimsical fancies of her heart with too many alibis to prove it false. He was gone. There was no coming back from death – and that was his last great secret – his last great victory. He always had his reasons for keeping things from her until the very end – leaving her to figure it out on her own, and he may have guessed that she would've tried to stop him. He didn't want to be stopped.

Anger and sorrow mixed together like fire and ice and it was only when a car pulled up did she find the resolve to swallow it down and turn away from the sight, from the recollection.

"Evey!"

"Mr. Finch …" Her voice was a mumble and she hurriedly wiped her eyes as she stepped towards the cop car with the window rolled down and the inspector's dark head leaning out of it.

"It's time things changed," he said in the same tone of finality that she had said to him time and again in their limited phone conversations. She blinked, as if in a daze before she turned back once more to the darkness of the alley. Her heart was playing tricks on her as her eyes centered and focused on the slightest movement of shadow within. Finch called her name again before she could get lost in another memory and she turned back to him, nodding as she gripped the door handle to the back seat and got inside. Instinct told her it wasn't safe to linger.

The car rumbled down the street as Finch held the wheel a little bit too tightly as he stared ahead. Dominic, sitting in the passenger side, glanced out the window. Evey, in the back seat, sat with her hands between her knees, staring down at the floor. Dominic stole a glance at her.

"It's decided," Finch said suddenly, "but before a signature is written down, I wanted to make sure it was ok by you first."

Evey slowly glanced up. "What is it?"

"This country is drowning in its own chaos." His tone changed, filled with a mixture of sadness and fatherly worry. "And you're drowning in your own mind."

Evey raised her delicate but strong chin and stared squarely at Finch's reflection in the rear view mirror. Her eyes, made more prominent from her lack of hair, stared darkly at his always-mournful looking face. Dominic noticed and raised his eyebrows in surprise at her.

"_Now is the winter of our discontent … in the deep bosom of the ocean buried."_

Finch ignored her quote as he turned a corner. He knew it was chaotic madness out on the streets, a swirling, violent vortex that no one seems to have control over; only the ghost of an idea still reigned over the entirety of the situation. "Evey," he explained, "the nation's been thrown into a damned vacuum. It's a race, now, to get out of it and the first one to do so will dictate what happens next. I won't let this country fall back down on its knees. Not if I have anything to say about it. I don't want the past to be repeated anymore than you do. And this is not what he would've wanted. So let's start going in the right direction. Surely, he didn't want absolute anarchy in the streets – without order, always in a constant state of chaos. My God, we're going on over a year of this. That's got to change. I spoke with a man who has the same visions as we all do. I need your signature to help bring him into office."

She felt the tears come at the silent mention of V and felt them turn to anger as he continued. The term 'Chancellor' was abolished after Sutler's reign and 'Prime Minister' was being returned into the vernacular but honestly, change the word, it still had the same malicious meaning behind it. Because it had been years upon years that a new individual has been elected, it was being held a lot differently – almost in secret. Something didn't feel right but the alternative was to let Anarchy continue her destruction. Evey really didn't have a choice.

"We meet with him in the morning. I would like you to meet him, too before a final decision is made."

Evey rolled her head to the side to stare out the window, watching the familiar apartments go by, her eyes instinctively flicking to the roofs, childishly hoping to see a dark, shadowed shape silhouetted against the night sky. Three words kept pounding in her head and piercing her heart … 'I miss you …' … There really was no other choice and she swallowed hard.

"Evey …"

A different voice. She flicked her eyes to the front seat to see Dominic staring back at her.

"It's going to be ok."

The corners of her lips pulled in a small smile, almost grateful to hear the sentiments but disbelieving every word.

"Thank you, Dominic." She watched him smile in reassurance before her gaze shifted to the windshield and she pointed to her flat. "It's that one."

The car stopped and she got out. Finch gazed up at her. "I'll call you in the morning," he said.

She felt her throat tighten up and all she could do was nod. She walked silently to her flat, not looking back as the sound of the car driving off met her ears. Stepping heavily up the stairs, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

She made due with her promise and took some aspirin and fell into bed. The atmosphere of the small room was enough to put her into a coma of indifference. Shifting over onto her side, she silently agreed that things did, indeed, have to change – but it wouldn't be in her lifetime.

Until then, sleep was best.


	4. Ravaged Reminiscence

The dim light was kind and gentle, warming the very atmosphere with its golden glow. Harmonious with the shadows, light ebbed and flowed with darkness, dipping and diving along the stone walls, renewing and enhancing ageless time itself. They embraced the artifacts as they embraced each other in an almost loving and venerable way, as if the artwork had always belonged there. Everything had its place, its order; nothing was cluttered and every piece was given careful reverence to – one never outshining another; all equal in beauty and significance.

Brown eyes marveled at the sight, hardly able to take it in. A few curious fingers touched upon the rich mahogany of the piano, musing to herself if it was used for functionality as well as for decorative purposes. This place was the epitome of elegance and perfection, the likes of which hardly existed in the grey world from which she came from. This new world was filled with dazzling colour that heightened her senses. The Shadow Gallery felt alive, like it was a heart muscle beating new life into her veins, and its warmth certainly spread through every hall and corridor and room – its own living entity, just as it spread through every inch of her. A tall, handsome grandfather clock stood against a wall, marking the time that seemed to be nonexistent here. Though it was quiet, the sound of the clock didn't cut into the silence, rather, the light sound and the lack of it complimented each other – just as everything did here. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon, it couldn't be known so deep underground. It only added to the Gallery's charm. Despite having been here a few days, Evey always found something new to marvel at around the main chamber – either an elaborately stitched tapestry hung upon a wall or a great, artfully carved statue sitting on the stone floor. The stories they must've had, the history behind the paint and marble ... It was hard to fathom that this place was actually real and not something from a dream. Eyes scanned over the many books in their shelves as well as the few piles stacked upon mantles and tables, her footfalls steady as she went. None of the titles sounded familiar except for an occasional Shakespearean play that whispered from the recesses of her childhood – reminding her of her mother and the books, in general, reminding her of her father. Surely, one man couldn't have procured all of these things by himself though, in the back of her mind, it was easy to believe he did. She smiled to herself, something that had been so rare to do but now came so easily. Though she was alone for the most part, she didn't _feel_ alone – not with so much history and culture surrounding her, as if the books, paintings, and statues had voices and they spoke to her in their own silent tongue.

"… a great feast of languages … liv'd long on the alms-basket of words."

His deep tone pierced the air, causing her heart to trip over itself as she jumped in surprise and whirled around, hand on her chest. "You keep scaring me … and sneaking up on me." Her eyes were wide as she accused.

V stood before her, gloved hands clasped around a book as the mask grinned at her, hardly moved by her response. The words he spoke were the opposite of its expression and were very sincere.

"I apologize," he said at once, dipping his head down slightly. "I thought you might like to read something whilst you were here, so I brought you a personal favorite of mine. But every book you see here can be read at your leisure for you stand amidst the well-spring of knowledge and you may drink your fill - as much as you desire."

Evey found the action almost touching and very different from the black hurricane that she had witnessed in the alley. The V then, had indeed scared her – with all of his daggers and explosives and insanity. This V, though, was starkly different by comparison – a gentleman, always aware of his manners, and who took such kind and careful steps around her. She knew he was the same entity, but it was still hard to fathom the two residing in a single body.

Large, gloved hands held out the book; small, feminine hands reached out to take it.

"Thank you," she said with a smile until it faded away into awkwardness. It was very unnerving, not to mention challenging, to regard someone with an expressionless smile – the oxymoron that it was. What was he thinking? She wondered if she would ever find out his identity but always, it was only his warm, deep voice that seemed to carry the most expression, as well as his graceful movements that were nothing short of formal to her. In that way, coupled with light and shadow, the mask was expressive, but it was certainly something she had to dig deep or read between the lines to decipher.

With the slightest nod, he turned on his heel and disappeared down a dim hallway. Where it led, she didn't know. She never had thoughts of following him to find out nor had she thought to explore the rest of the Gallery just yet. She honestly didn't even know if it was allowed. Evey glanced at the book, a thin layer of dust upon the cover. Wiping it off, she settled down upon the black leather couch to read. Letting it rest in her lap, her mind slowly began to take in the reality of the situation. This morning, when she had apologized to him for her childish reaction the other night, it all seemed a blur as time melted away from all logic into forgotten memory. She was scared to remember; scared to take it all in for fear it would swallow her up. She was being held captive by the terrorist Codename: V for a year, yet she had helped him. She had maced a detective that had him stopped at gunpoint in Jordon Tower, the same detective that had been after her for having been with V when the Bailey blew up. The entire Nose was out looking for her, believing that she was his accomplice, and not to mention the terror of the Finger, all because she had dared to venture out after curfew. Yet here she sat, about ready to read _The Cask of Amontillado _when all instinct told her to run. Run from the safest place in London? V had assured her, with his utmost veracity, that the Shadow Gallery was the safest place in the country and that she could sleep soundly here in this sanctuary that was miles beneath the city's streets, from any kind of government surveillance, and any black bag lurking in an awaiting van. She pressed her palms against her face and took a deep breath. She truly was out of her mind.

Dim shadows enveloped him as he left the warmth of the light behind with his new guest. Gloom seemed to feed off of his black clothing, encouraging his movements in lieu of hindering them and his heart flickered in response, remembering and knowing the joy that comes with darkness. V weaved in and out of rooms and corridors with ease, so fluid was his steps, great purpose within each footfall. As he journeyed further below its depths, the temperature changed abruptly. It was colder, more foreboding as the chilled air from the long forgotten train tunnels stretched and reached up through the Gallery's veins and arteries, lingering like a sickness. But V made sure that the heart of his beloved home would never know such an ailment and dutifully kept that part of the Gallery very warm. His invisible path suddenly opened up to the mezzanine. A gloved hand smoothed along the iron of the railing which abruptly led to the backbone of the Gallery – a long winding, impressive set of stairs; one of many. Heading downward, he was really ascending up towards its optic nerves and neurological connections.

The girl would be preoccupied enough with the books and displays within the main chamber to get in the way of his immediate endeavors and for all the doors that held such secrets within were carefully locked from inquisitive minds and curious hands. V was hardly worried - not about her and certainly not about the things to come. The mere thought of the impending climax of his orchestra quickened his blood in its delight. Will it be only less than a year when the culmination of his life's work can finally come to an end? Ooh, the things he had to show for it. For those not killed in the fires of a virulent past, V judged them all – every single one that ever worked at that facility; except for three - the three he was saving for the grand finale – the final act before the year was out. Valerie, you would be proud, he thought in immense veneration. A door stood ajar; gloved fingers pushed it open to reveal a room lit up by an entire wall of working televisions. The monitors cast a stark white shine upon the solid veneer as V walked calmly along the glowing wall, hands clasped behind him as he observed the many moving black and white images with great care and interest – his metaphorical chess board. There were interior scenes as well as images showing the grey streets and buildings outside. Some flickered on and off of illegal broadcastings and tv shows. A select few had sound. Bits and snatches of dialogue from the common people reached his ears, all recounting, in hushed and awed tones what had happened yesterday at the BTN - of the masked terrorist that spoke of words that seemed long dead in their vernacular vocabulary, words like 'hope,' 'justice,' and 'freedom' that slowly began to lift the fog of oppression from their eyes and rattle the chains that had them shackled to Tyranny's wall. The fuse had indeed been lit and change was coming - the masked figure had assured them that.

V stopped to gaze at the image of an interior office room high up in Jordon Tower. A dark smile twisted scarred lips. He was glad to know that Dascombe had discovered his little present that he had left for him in the control booth. Who knew the bloke knew how to disarm a bomb under such taxing pressure? He cared about that place in the same way that Prothero cared about his plastic dolls, both heavily guilty of personal vanity. It was a pity that it held more importance than the flesh and blood of the citizens they are in charge of protecting and informing, treated like prisoners in a penitentiary. The fact that Jordan Tower still stood was a minor setback, nothing that couldn't be worked around. A meticulous mind had innumerable options all leading to the same grand and vicious end. And though it wasn't blind yet, London's government would still be violently eviscerated, starting with the cutting out of its tongue.

A metal smile shown in the reflection of the television screen and unfeeling black eyes watched as a sandy haired man sat at a desk, talking fervently on the phone. V glanced to the side at an adjacent monitor of another interior scene – an office of the Nose where the chief inspector was in deep conversation with his partner. Ever since the destruction of the Old Bailey, they were dutifully assigned in tracking the terrorist down. Only when his work was finished would V ever think of "turning himself in." Until then, they would have to be content in chasing after a ghost. Stepping back a pace, black eyes soon focused on the entire wall of television screens as a whole - all the players and pawns slowly making their way to their respective tiles, to be sacrificed or used to further his righteous means before they too, would be wiped from the board completely. Eyes roamed over the monitor wall until they spied a stocky looking man stepping out onto a street corner, no doubt the Voice of Fate on his way to record the daily taping for the evening - puppets on a string, the whole bloody lot of them. Gloved hands turned a knob near one of the monitors and a voice broke the stillness.

"Yes, Patricia. He'll be staying late again, as usual, so prepare yourself, you know how he gets. Extra sugar, please. Thanks. I'll need it. Right, right. I've got it here, I'll look at it." Dascombe set the phone in its cradle and heaved an irritated sigh as he ran a hand through his mousse sculpted hair.

A sound escaped the slit in the mask at Dascombe's words and V's mind subsequently returned back to the girl that was floors above him. It was at the BTN that his guest had worked and she'd most certainly have a key card on her, perfect for his reunion with the Commander. Like plugging variables into an equation, he placed the moments, situations, and connections in place and as always, it fit perfectly; all that was needed now was to solve it. V had no qualms at all about using her without her knowing and no matter how deep she'd be in with the Nose, she'd be safe here in the Gallery, away from their needless interrogations and away from the Finger's black bags – she was utterly immune to their dangers so long as she remained Underground. But she was already a prisoner in their eyes, born into chains, as they all were, cogs in the corrupted machine of their radical ideology, too weak to pose any resistance and merely waiting to be dragged, broken in every way, behind the chemical sheds and shot – the fate of all that do not see and dare not do. Indeed, she was safer in his care.

There was a methodical method to V's madness, each player having a vital part to play. Though he vacillated between hero and villain, he was ever focused on the bigger picture, the grand tapestry that was so meticulously stitched around them – the widening gyre of his making that would be the noose around their corrupted necks ere he would send the bottom out from under them, jerking their bodies to a final stop and leaving them to sway in their venal mistakes. And as he had told Evey in the alley, he did not think that their meeting was coincidental and as the days progressed, it proved all the more true. For now, he would water her malnourished mind with knowledge, history, and culture that she so desperately needed with his left hand and with his right, he would push her into the allotted tile that would be the most integral in this vicious cabaret.

"The hell is this?"

A voice pulled V out of his thoughts and he regarded the man with renewed amusement as Dascombe read aloud:

"_I love you from the depths of me, _

_I love you with each breath._

_A pity that you lie to me_

_And strangle Truth to death._

Is this a bloody joke?" Frustrated, the paper was shoved onto his desk with an irritated sigh.

"Enjoy my love note," V murmured to the image of Dascombe as the man slowly rose from his desk, a cell phone pressing to his ear. V turned away from the wall of televisions and stepped towards the threshold, softly closing the door behind him.

Returning to the main chamber, a passing glance told him all he needed to know. Her head rested on the cushioned arm of the sofa closest to the hallway, body laid out on the couch and deeply engrossed in the book he had given her. V would never be seen as he made his way silently down the other end of the corridor towards his room that was now hers. Not making a sound, the door was pushed open. V entered and eyes swiftly scanned desks and dressers for various odd ends of her personal effects that were, perhaps, laid out for her convenience. He found nothing. The bag that was around her when he had first brought her here was the only personal possession she had and he suddenly spied it lying upon the bed. Stepping forward, gloved fingers pulled it open without hesitation and rooted through it. It didn't take long before they suddenly clamped upon exactly what he was looking for. The mask appeared to smile in a maliciously satisfying way before the ID card was pocketed and his presence disappeared from the room completely, leaving the bag exactly as it was found.

It was a collection of short stories, but Evey read his favorite first, the story of a man that was so detail orientated that nothing got passed him to exact revenge upon an old friend turned traitor. And the scary part of it was that he got away with it. It sent a chill up her spine as her mind began to really think about whom exactly she shared this abode with, what all he did, what all he was capable of, and what he would do. But his kindness always seemed to assuage her fears and she pushed that growing feeling out of her mind and enjoyed the compilation of stories. She couldn't understand why they were banished to the Black List, but there was a lot that she didn't understand. The way the author wrote and the images that were conjured in her mind were vivid and beautiful, if not a little morbid at times. Growing up, it was always said that it was for the citizenry's own good that anything not green lit by the government would be sent to the Vaults of Objectionable Materials. Being only a child, it went above her head the significance of those metaphorical bars closing before her and her family. A sad sigh escaped her as she turned a page.

The hard covered book had been old and nearly faded when it was first given to her, and it still retained that archaic look as trembling fingers lovingly caressed over the cover. Evey's eyes were blood shot and very dark underneath from lack of sleep. The aspirin only helped so much. She sat in a chair near the bed, the pitch darkness of the room providing her its own kind of comfort. There was so much there in the annals of her mind that she wished to keep new and dust free, and this book was one of them – one of the very rare things that she thought to keep for herself, salvaged from a decrepit, decaying tomb. She never saw him again the rest of that day but she knew what all he did, if the next day's events were any indication. It was that evening, after she had grown weary, that she had retired for the night and began to check in her bag for a single picture that was the only thing retained from her childhood when she noticed her card missing. She had no idea … she had no idea. Oblivious of her own sins that were committed well above her head, V's actions made the world believe that she was his accomplice, that she helped him kill, and that she agreed with his morality and sense of justice. Even now, it made her nauseated to think of it. It was wrong … wasn't it?

"_Why are you asking me? I seem to recall that you wanted to make a deal."_

_A feminine cry sounded in the haze of a broken mind as young Evey hugged the only person that had ever cared to help her, that had made the most difference in her life. She felt the warmth of his body emanate beneath the jacket. Evey wanted to help him morally, a tiny hope that maybe she could deter V from that violent, unforgiving path the way he had stepped in and intervened with her. They could save each other._

"_I won't do any more killing, V …" _

"… not even for you," she whispered despondently to the quiet and solemn shadows that hugged her form. They empathized in a way that nothing else of flesh and blood could hope to come close to. Her young, naïve voice coalesced with his deep tone and it wasn't long before more memories flashed beneath her eyelids. Even when her eyes were open sometimes, it came like a torrent and she had no choice but to see it through, every muscle in her body locking up and her heart beating fast in her chest until she was finally released from the visions. It was physically painful and incredibly exhausting. She was haunted, day and night by the ghost of an idea and the trials and tribulations of her unforgiving past. Though solitude was vicious and unremorseful, the darkness only cloaked her further in its strange consoling way. Like a process that she had experienced daily, warm tears slid down her face next and it wasn't long before she pulled the book to her chest and sobbed into the night.

"You think she's going to be ok, Chief?"

The cop car stopped at a traffic light, the red signal glaring off of the windshield. Finch's expression remained the same as before as he glanced over at his partner.

"You keep asking me that, Dominic, and what is it that I always say?"

"I just worry about her. It's not healthy, not normal …"

"Her entire life's not normal, Dominic. She'll come around, one day though. You can never put a time limit on grief and that girl's been through more than anyone should ever have to."

Dominic grew silent in thought, feeling a growing suspicion that Finch knew more than what he was letting on. After having met briefly with Miss Hammond during that year that she and Finch helped get the country free from its chains, it was found out, from the Chief Inspector that she had only been forced into those seeming coincidences, and not of her own volition, that connected her with the Terrorist: her escape from Creedy's men, her ID card information at the scene of a crime, records of a mix-up at the agency concerning Bishop Lilliman … The law was the law, and if she had been helping him out, she would've had to have been taken in. But the Terrorist had succeeded anyway. But it was worth it, Finch assured him later after they could stop to breath for a moment after scrambling about in panic with everyone else that night. It was hard for him to believe the Inspector's sentiments now. This country went from one evil end of the spectrum to the other – how was that better? How had that even been possible? It's all gone wrong, he thought, and remains so.

Dominic had asked him if he had found anything in the tunnels when the Inspector had disappeared down the stairs of the abandoned Victoria Station. The only reply he had gotten was a shake of his head and a somber, "No."

"_You didn't see anythin," Dominic pressed once the two were back at Headquarters after the madness of the destruction of Parliament. Finch continued to shake his head but there was a strange look in his eye, as he turned away, that nagged at the young cop. This whole case was bollocks with too many coincidences that, more than likely, drove his friend and superior mad. He had never seen him so obsessed – or possessed - with finding the truth and bringing the Terrorist to justice. But they failed. The building was blown up anyway with no arrest or a body – just hundreds of thousands of those shit-grinning masks and hours of phone calls and paper work corpse ID tags. _

He blinked, willing his mind away from that night that still sent a shiver down his spine. It had been chaos and more than a few times, he had feared for his life. All of those screams, all of that needless violence. If only no one had shown up that night, it all could've been avoided.

But finally, after a year of tracking down a ghost and another year of watching the country slowly crumble in on itself, they were finally going to do something about it. The country needed leadership, a sense of direction out of this spiraling anarchy that only made good people go insane with greed and crime. It needed a proper governing, before Sutler had been appointed Chancellor and before his establishment of the Head. Dominic just hoped that she would see it their way and agree with this underhanded dealing that was nothing short of desperation.

"You alright?"

Dominic blinked again and looked at his friend. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Um, how did you know where she'd be?"

A grunt as the car turned into the parking lot of headquarters and into a space. The ignition was turned off. "Wot's that? Who?"

"Evey. How did you know where she'd be?"

At the question, a very rare thing happened - the corners of his lips pulled in the smallest smile. "I had a feeling."


End file.
